by jphilo | Jun 24, 2009 | Out and About
Yesterday, Mom and I drove to Le Mars, my hometown, to visit relatives. So much has changed since I graduated from college in 1978. The old post office is now the Community Theater’s headquarters. The old Carnegie library, where I met Lois Lenski, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Cherry Ames, is now the Fine Arts Center. Westmar College is gone, Wells Blue Bunny is a behemoth, but KLEM is still on the air and the Daily Sentinel is still in business.
Beverly Van Buskirk, the lifestyles editor at the Sentinel, interviewed me about my book. We chuckled through the entire interview because we were high school and college classmates, never dreaming we’d both be writers one day. And in a few minutes, we’re going to my aunt’s house, where she and my uncle have lived for nearly 50 years, for coffee with some old neighbors.
The house will be familiar, but visiting with the neighbors as adult to adult will be a bit strange for me. One woman is the mother of a childhood friend of mine. Another is the mother of two kids I used to babysit. Maybe they’ve moved on, but I’m still stuck in those old relationships, and am not sure how to act.
So many things in my hometown have changed. Maybe today, I’ll be the one who changes. Maybe today, I’ll grow up.
by jphilo | Jan 17, 2008 | Daily Life
It snowed in the night, while I was sleeping. I woke to a changed world. This morning the yard glitters with three inches of soft, white coldness covering every blemish. I hated to mar that smooth perfection, but scooped a small path to the garage. Then I put the shovel away and went inside, determined to enjoy the beauty before it melted away.
While I ate breakfast I noticed the spruce trees in the back yard, their tips dusted with snowflakes. Every few minute a bit of snow fell from a branch and exploded in the silent breeze. I looked at the trees and wondered, as I have so often in the past year, when they grew so large.
Hiram and I planted four blue spruces when our children were little. Allen was about ten, and Anne was four. The trees were tiny, less than a yard tall when Hiram dug holes and the kids and I dragged the hose from hole to hole. We never watered the trees again, just trusted their roots to find water and their branches to soak up the sunshine.
The trees are so tall now, and I marvel. When did their branches grow strong enough to bear the weight of the snow? And when did my children learn to stand and accept the weight of adulthood?
It happened in the night, I think, while I was sleeping.
by jphilo | Sep 20, 2007 | Out and About
Last night I interviewed two girls. They live about six miles from me, and the trip to their house should have been an easy one. Except that I turned west when the directions said east. By the time I got turned the right way, I was ten minutes late for the interview.
The visit with the girls, ages 11 and 15, made my wanderings worthwhile. They came to the United States from Russia five years ago when they were adopted by a local family. The stories they told about the changes they’ve endured – learning a new language, adjusting to a new culture and leaving their birth country behind – were astounding. Yet these girls were grateful for the changes and their new life, though they miss the grandmother they left behind.
On my way home, I noticed that the soybean fields have all turned from green to brown this past week. The assurance of expected changes of seasons steadied me as I drove up my familiar driveway. And I wondered if, the next time my life turns a new direction, I will accept the change with as much gratitude as did the two young girls with whom I shared an early fall evening.
